


Trophies

by luthorienne



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Implied Violence, animal cruelty (not too graphic), descriptions of hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 01:27:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2563196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luthorienne/pseuds/luthorienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evening's shop talk among hunters -- professional, and otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trophies

“Seriously, Tony, I’d really rather not go.”

Tony Stark leaned against the edge of the jeweler’s bench where Clint sat, cutting fletches from Canada Goose quills with a scalpel. Clint had collected the feathers near the pond in Central Park on a misty morning three weeks earlier; Tony knew, because he’d tagged along on the walk. Most of the arrows Tony and SHIELD made for Clint were fletched with acrylics, but Clint still made, and fletched, a few of his own.

“Jesus, Barton, that makes two of us. Come on, if I have to go, the least you can do is come with me so there’s somebody at the table who can talk to these assholes.”

“Thanks very much,” Clint said with a sardonic smile, tossing his reading glasses onto the bench. Tony made an impatient gesture, accidentally dislodging a couple of feathers from the pile. Clint tsk’d at him and moved the bundle of feathers to the opposite side of the bench.

“You know what I mean. With them, it’s all about hunting and ballistics and bragging about this and that crazy shot they made. I can’t talk about that shit.”

“Tell me again how you used to be in the weapons business?” Clint asked curiously, folding his arms across his chest.

“I did science and blew shit up,” Tony replied. “Look, Pepper says I’ve got to go; there’s a ton of investors at this thing. I need a wingman, Legolas. Anyway, it’s to benefit some African wildlife trust, and the food will be awesome.”

 

“You didn’t tell me I’d have to wear a freakin’ tux,” Clint complained as he wheeled Tony’s Aston-Martin around a curve. 

“Aren’t I letting you drive to make up for it?” Tony demanded, busily texting. “I would think that – whoa!” Tony grabbed for the dash as Clint abruptly veered and braked. Up ahead, a sleek, low-slung yellow car had swerved to clip a dog, now down and struggling in the middle of the road as the car disappeared in the dusk. “Fuck! Who is that?”

“That’s an asshole,” Clint said grimly. “Wait here.”

He pulled to the side of the road in a skirl of gravel, headlights illuminating the struggling dog, and crouched by the animal, feeling its body and limbs gently. Tony got out of the car and came to crouch beside him, watching nervously for the lights of oncoming traffic. The dog was yelping in pain and terror, an obvious compound fracture distorting the line of one hind leg. Clint reached out and gentled the animal, murmuring softly as he removed his jacket and dress shirt, thrusting them blindly at Tony. A breath of sandalwood soap rose from the collar of the shirt as Tony took it, cutting through the thick, meaty odor of blood and frightened dog.

“Jesus, be careful he doesn’t bite you,” Tony said sharply as Clint stripped off his t-shirt, wrapped it around the dog, and gathered the animal into his arms.

“He’s okay; he’s not going to bite me,” Clint replied calmly, and in fact, the dog seemed to relax in Clint’s hold. Tony could see it was thin and dirty – obviously a stray. “We’re going to be a little late to your shindig, Tony.”

“No shit! There’s probably a vet in that little place we just went through.” He got into the car as Clint gently set the whimpering dog on the Aston-Martin’s back seat. “JARVIS? Where’s the closest animal hospital?”

 

It was fully dark by the time they reached the club, pulling up on the concrete drive under a massive Craftsman portico. A young man in the red jacket of valet parking rose from a log bench and came to Clint’s window.

“Good evening, sir; do you have – oh, good evening, Mr. Stark. Nice to see you again.”

“Hey, Rudy, how are you?” Tony asked as they emerged from the car. “How are the classes coming?”

“Pretty well, sir. Thank you for sending me the information about the merger; I got a great mark on that paper.”

“Don’t thank me, kid, that was all Pepper,” Tony said, waving a hand airily. “All the usual suspects here tonight?”

“Yes, sir, it’s a full house.”

“Is somebody here driving a yellow Ferrari?” Clint asked as he handed over the keys. “We saw one on the road earlier.”

“I believe that’s Mr. Delaronde’s car, sir. She’s a beautiful ride.”

“Thanks, Rudy. Take good care of Baby,” Tony added, mounting the steps to the country club and leaning over to speak quietly to Clint. “Joseph Delaronde. His father made a killing in pet food. Speaking of irony.”

The West Wynd Country Club was a Craftsman showpiece, all angular fumed oak, corbels and stone slabs, a fire in the massive fireplace at one end of the open lounge area. The wall above the fireplace was bristling with trophy heads: deer, moose, elk and antelope, staring glassily down at perhaps a hundred men and women, dressed in evening gowns and tuxedos of various vintages, standing around in groups of five or six, most with drinks in their hands. Tony glanced around and sighed. 

“We’ve missed most of happy hour,” he said sadly. “That’s my favourite part.”

“Cheer up,” Clint said grimly, assessing the sightlines in the room in one sweeping glance, “we’ll get to beat up your friend, Mr. Delaronde, later.”

“He’s no friend of mine,” Tony replied. “He’s the one who’s always bragging loudest about hunting. The sonofabitch has been on safari about a dozen times.”

“Really?” Clint asked, tilting his head curiously. “Which one is he?”

But before Tony could answer, a distinguished older gentleman announced dinner, and the crowd started moving to a cased doorway that led into an adjacent dining room.

“So, I have no objection, personally,” Tony said quietly as they searched for their placecards, “but Pepper would probably be pissed if we disrupted the dinner.”

“I’m not planning on disrupting dinner,” Clint said innocently, spotting their table. “I’m hungry, and you promised me awesome food.”

“Y-y-ea-a-ah,” Tony murmured, checking out the other placecards at their table. “This ain’t gonna be good.”

“Mm?”

“Joseph Delaronde,” Tony said, gesturing to a heavy-set man in his 40’s who was approaching their table, “this is my friend, Clint Barton. I see we’re all sitting together this evening,” he added, giving Delaronde’s arm decoration, a svelte blonde, a level look. “And who is this lovely lady?” he asked. Delaronde threw him a look of exasperated tolerance. The girl gave him a blue-white smile and a heavily beringed hand with scarlet nails a good inch long.

“I’m Candy,” she said. Tony kissed the hand with a warm smile.

“I bet you are,” he murmured. 

“Tony, you’re a rogue,” said an elderly woman with fond asperity. Grinning, Tony turned to embrace her, reaching out to shake the hand of her escort, a white-haired gentleman walking with an ebony cane.

“Agatha and Charlie Bellamy, let me introduce you to my friend, Clint Barton,” he said. “Clint, Agatha and Charlie have the dubious honour of being my godparents.”

“Dubious, indeed,” Agatha remarked, allowing Clint to pull out her chair for her. “This scamp has been a scandal from birth. Luckily, we spent most of the time overseas,” she added to a smiling Clint. 

“Do you and your husband hunt?” Clint asked, taking his seat between Agatha and Tony. Agatha shook her head, but deferred to her husband to answer.

“We’ve been on safari several times,” Charlie said, “but I prefer to capture animals in my camera.” He shook his head. “Any fool can kill an animal, especially if it’s old or sick, as so many cull animals are. The real challenge, I believe, lies in capturing the animal’s image, being part of its environment for a short time, without ever letting it know you’re there.” He shrugged. “I daresay it’s foolish of me, but in the diplomatic corps, we see more than our fair share of violence in various parts of the world. I see no need to add to it.”

Silently, Clint reached across Agatha to shake Charlie’s hand.

“Charlie, you old pacifist, how are you?” And their conversation was derailed by two other couples coming up to fill the remaining chairs.

Unlike Tony, Clint had spent the majority of his career in the shadows. When, inevitably, someone asked him what he did for a living, he replied, “I’m in the security business.” And then, of course, it was assumed he was one of Tony’s former clients. 

“Are you a hunter yourself, Mr. Barton?” asked Agatha. Clint smiled.

“In a manner of speaking,” he said truthfully. “I’ve spent quite a bit of time in Africa, one way or another, but not on safari.”

“Oh, you must go,” Delaronde declared. “It’s a bit pricey, but definitely worth it for a really magnificent trophy. I’ve collected all the Big Five. Of course, I’ve gone out many times.”

“Big five? What’s a big five?” asked Candy. 

“Top five African game animals,” Clint replied. “Elephant, rhino, cape buffalo, lion and leopard.”

“But what do you kill them for?” Candy asked. Delaronde patted her hand.

“For the trophy, darling,” he said. “It’s all about the thrill, the adventure, testing your mettle, standing up to a deadly killer and triumphing. You can look up and see the head of your enemy hanging on the wall and relive that moment when it was you or the lion.” He sipped his wine. “I learn something new about myself every time I go on safari. It’s a journey of self-discovery.”

“Aren’t those animals protected?” Candy asked. Tony smirked at Delaronde. 

“Yeah, Joe, aren’t they protected?” he asked innocently. 

“Certainly they are,” replied Delaronde, shooting an annoyed glance at Tony. “Safaris are organized to cull animals from protected populations. They’re very carefully regulated. You go out with a professional hunter and guide who tells you which animal you can shoot. You don’t just get to blaze away.”

“And yet some do,” murmured Agatha, softly enough that only Clint heard her. They shared a private smile as one of the other guests asked Charlie if he went armed on his photographic safaris.

“I generally tote along my old Purdey in case of emergency,” Charlie replied, “but aside from a test shot at the beginning of each trip, I don’t think I’ve had it out of the case the last few times I went. Mind you,” he added with a smile, “the last time we were out, I thought we were going to have to bring it out – we had a video photographer with us who seemed to think he was invisible to elephants. We were charged, but it was a bluff. I got some excellent pictures.”

“You have a Purdey, sir?” Clint asked. 

“Yes, a 12-bore side-by-side double shotgun. It was my father’s.”

“Hammered?”

“No, the Beesley action. I had a hammered one, but it was quite an antique. My son has it in a case on the wall in his study.”

“I’ll bet it’s still in good order, though,” Clint grinned. Charlie smiled.

“Well, as a matter of fact, it is,” he admitted, “but it’s Damascus, so he doesn’t like to risk it. He’s had it out at the range once or twice, but he’s not much of a hunter, either, though he’s gone after upland from time to time.” He shook his head. “I don’t even do that any longer, but I’m still a menace to clay pigeons. You should come out with us; get Tony to bring you along, and Allan and I will bring the Purdeys for you to try out.”

“I’d love to see them,” Clint said. “Purdeys are genuinely pieces of art.”

“But much too light for big game,” Delaronde interrupted. Agatha tsked.

“Well, we generally have more than one firearm in the luggage,” she said with asperity. “As a matter of fact, I once used a .416 Rigby to kill a Gaboon viper that was creeping up on Charlie.”

“Really?” Clint eyed her with interest. He estimated she probably weighed about a hundred pounds, counting the diamond ring. “How did you find it?”

“It knocked me flat on my arse,” she confided, “and I could hardly use my left arm for a week.”

“She’s a game one, my little popsy,” Charlie said complacently to a grinning Clint, patting Agatha’s hand. 

“It was a pretty snake,” she said, “and I regretted shooting it. But I’d have regretted not shooting it much more.”

“How did it get the drop on you?” Tony asked Charlie, who shrugged.

“I was filming a herd of cape buffalo,” he replied. “Just as they were about to move on, I spotted a couple of lionesses in the grass, stalking one of the young calves. I’m afraid I was so intrigued, I lost track of where I was.”

“That happens to snipers, too,” Clint commented. “You get so focused on the target, you lose situational awareness. That’s why God made spotters,” he added, giving Agatha a grin, which she returned. Tony rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be trying to romance my godmother, Legolas,” he said firmly. Agatha gave him a lofty look, taking Clint’s arm possessively.

“Leave him alone, Anthony,” she said quellingly. “I’m old, but I’m not dead, you know.”

Dinner was served on the tail of the laugh that followed, and as they sipped their soup, one of the men across the table addressed himself to Delaronde.

“You should tell Mr. Barton the story of your elephant,” he commented. Delaronde demurred modestly, but it was plain he was dying to tell the story. Clint raised a polite eyebrow.

“You have an elephant story?”

“Well, it’s not that exciting, really,” Delaronde said, and then proceeded to tell, in excruciating detail, the story of his fifth safari, when he had gone out with a PH (“That’s a Professional Hunter, darling,” he said to Candy, who was raptly contemplating her manicure and seemed surprised to have been addressed) and had, after considerable stalking and a number of shots that had Clint frankly astonished, been forced to allow his PH to step in and finish off the elephant. By that time, the waiters were removing the dinner plates and dessert was about to be served. Tony poured himself a third glass of wine, noting as he did that Clint’s glass was all but untouched.

“So, let me get this straight,” Clint said when Delaronde paused for breath. “You shot this elephant _nine times_ with a Weatherby Mark 5, which is a pretty damn heavy rifle, before your PH stepped in for mercy and took him down with a single shot?”

There was a brief silence, and some speaking looks were exchanged around the table. That certainly put a different complexion on the story than Delaronde’s thrilling tale of Man against Nature, Red in Tooth and Claw. 

“Well – baldly, yes, I suppose that’s correct. But as you’ll recollect, I was -- “

“And what was your PH using?”

“Erm – I don’t recall, really –“

“I think you told me once he was using a Winchester 70, Joe,“ commented the man who’d asked for the elephant story. He met Clint’s eyes across the table, and they exchanged a slow smile. Charlie was smiling at his plate, and Agatha was regarding Clint and Delaronde with her head tilted quizzically. 

“Oh, ah, yes, I believe that’s correct,” Delaronde admitted. “Of course, by this time, the animal was ready to drop, so –“

“Jesus, Joe, by that time the elephant probably dropped from the weight of all the lead you put in him,” Tony snarked, eyes on the wine he was sipping. 

“You had what, a three-shot magazine? So you stopped and reloaded _twice,_ and – wait a minute – holy shit, you’re the guy,” Clint broke in, revelation dawning. He snapped his fingers and pointed at Delaronde, who was looking affronted. “Who was your PH?”

“Some German fellow; I’d have to look it up –“

“Jurgen Bosch, right? Jaeger,” he added to Tony as an aside. “About six-one, heavyset, blonde and blue, big soup-strainer moustache, wore fuh – er, freakin’ lederhosen and combat boots in the middle of the steaming jungle. Holy crap, you’re that guy!”

“I beg your pardon?” Delaronde said, bridling. Clint made a dismissing gesture and turned to Tony.

“Jaeger and I met overseas when I was still in the Marines. We were in a couple of tight spots together, got to be friends, and after we got out, we partnered up and did some, uh, private contract work together. We got hired by – um, well, I probably shouldn’t say who hired us, but we spent about three months in the jungle, cleaning up a poacher problem. We, ah – were very successful,” he added with a small smile.

“Wait,” Charlie said, “I think I remember that. That would be about sixteen years ago? I was stationed in Nairobi for about six weeks, and I recall hearing some pretty wild tales about the scourge of the poachers.”

“Barton, you’re a scourge,” Tony informed him, mock-serious. Clint smiled.

“I’m only half a scourge,” he corrected. “Anyway, after we were done, Jaeger set up on contract with the government as a PH. I ran into him in the airport in Kinshasa about a year ago, and he told me some safari stories over a couple of drinks. He didn’t mention your name,” he said to Delaronde, “but I recognize the description of the shots you took. Jurgen loses his English when he gets worked up, and I got the whole story in pretty loud German.” He shook his head at Delaronde. “Holy shit, man. You’re the guy that broke Jaeger. He won’t do safaris anymore; he’s just strictly conservation now.”

“How many poachers did you get?” asked the man who’d asked for the elephant story. Clint smiled reminiscently, the feral smile Tony had asked never be directed at him.

“All of them,” he replied with satisfaction.

There was, unsurprisingly, a pregnant silence following that announcement, broken by Agatha clearing her throat.

“Well, Mr. Barton, you must have some fascinating stories of your own,” she remarked. Clint smiled at her – the real smile – and shook his head.

“Most of them are classified,” he replied. _Or not meant to be told anyplace people were eating,_ he added in his head.

“What kind of a rifle were you using in the jungle?” asked one of the other men.

“I was using a compound crossbow, mostly. Nice and light and quiet, and you pretty much always get your ammo back. There’s a guy in Luanda used to make them custom for me. I like a recurve or a longbow, but they’re not fun to carry when the bush is thick. I had a Bushmaster, too, for when we wanted to make an impression.”

“Good, serviceable weapon,” commented the man who’d asked for the story. “And your friend Jaeger?”

“He had a Winchester Model 70.” He turned to Delaronde, who had been alternately red and white throughout the conversation. “Probably the same one he used to put your elephant down.” He shook his head. “It’s light for elephant, but if you know what you’re doing – and Jurgen does – it’s perfectly workable. ‘Course the only _animals_ we killed were a few birds and a couple of antelope for meat. We had some lions around a couple times, but we left them alone and they left us alone.” He grinned at Delaronde. “I have to give you some props, though – I wouldn’t want to have to put nine rounds of 460 through a Mark 5. You must’ve been freakin’ deaf and bloody near crippled, man.” He shook his head. “ _Nine_ rounds. Wow.”

There were speeches after dinner, all about the wildlife conservation fund. In the middle of the first one, Tony’s phone chirped, and he pulled it out to view a text from the vet: _some complicatns but dog will b ok. put 2500 dlrs on yr card. may be aditnl chrg for meds on pickup tomorrow._ He nudged Clint and showed it to him. Clint leaned close, murmuring in his ear, “I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

“The hell you will,” Tony replied softly. “I’d have paid ten times that to see Joe get his. Did you see his face when you said you knew his PH? Anyway, you know old Pete, back at the Tower?”

“Night security guy? The one at the monitors?”

“Yeah. He just lost his dog, and I’m pretty sure he’d love to adopt this one.”

Engrossed in the presentation, Tony was only aware Clint had slipped away from the table during a video of baby elephants frolicking at a waterhole when he slipped silently back into the chair next to Tony, smelling of outdoors and with a few drops of rain still sparkling in his hair. Tony raised an inquiring eyebrow, but Clint just gave him a bland smile and turned to watch the last of the presentation. 

Afterward, while a few die-hards lingered at the bar, most of the guests began drifting toward the coat-room. Clint’s story about Jurgen and the great elephant hunt was making the rounds; Tony could almost track its progress through the room in laughter and pointed looks at Delaronde. As soon as he decently could, Delaronde had gathered Candy (and the last shreds of his dignity) and made for the door. Charlie and Agatha and one or two of the others from their table stopped to shake Clint’s hand (and Agatha kissed his cheek), and the man who’d asked for the elephant story leaned close. 

“You’re Hawkeye, right?” he asked softly. Clint gave a short nod; he wasn’t one of the high-profile Avengers, but he did occasionally get recognized. At least this guy wasn’t making a spectacle of him. “My nephew is with Doctors Without Borders in Angola. You guys—“ he nodded at Tony-- “got them out of a jam with some mercenaries. I wanted to say thank you.”

Clint remembered the encounter: a human trafficking ring based in the jungle. He’d dislocated a finger piloting a helicopter over a firefight, dodging rifle shots.

“No thanks necessary,” he said, taking the man’s proffered hand. The finger, though a minor injury, had hurt like a bitch, and it had been three days before he could draw his bow comfortably. _So much for trophies,_ he thought. His were hung all over his body in scar tissue and remembered pain.

“Anytime you’d like to come back to the club, you’d be very welcome. Most of us really do respect wildlife. And I wanted to thank you for taking Joe down a peg,” added the man with a grin. “My wife thought I was nuts, asking for that awful elephant story again, but I think this might be the last time we have to hear it.”

Clint let his grin broaden out.

“Yeah, I don’t think you’ll be hearing any stories from him for awhile.”

As he and Tony stepped out the front doors, a tow truck was just pulling out with a yellow Ferrari up on the hook. Clint handed a folded twenty to Rudy, the parking valet.

“Something happened to Mr. Delaronde’s ride?” he asked innocently. Rudy shook his head. 

“The craziest thing,” he said, shaking his head. “All four tires slashed, and a big E cut in the hood. I don’t even know how you’d do that without a cut-off saw or something. Jerry and I have been out here all night, and we didn’t see anybody. Mr. Delaronde’s pretty mad, but you park at your own risk here, so the club isn’t liable. I feel bad, though.”

“Not your fault, Rudy,” Tony said easily. “It’s not like anybody else’s car was vandalized.”

When they were back on the road, Tony leaned back, turning to look at Clint, who was relaxed behind the wheel.

“Okay, I get the tires,” he said. “What’s the ‘E’ for? And how the hell did you carve it?”

Clint shook his head sadly. 

“Tony, Tony, and you’re a genius, too. ‘E’ is for ‘elephant’.” He reached down near his ankle and came up with a long knife with a gleaming blue-grey blade, twirling it dexterously in his fingers. “And ‘K’ is for ‘ka-bar’.”

Snickering, Tony pulled out his Starkphone and started poking keys busily. 

“What are you doing?” Clint asked warily. Tony gave him a serene smile.

“I’m letting Happy know to pick up the dog at the vet’s tomorrow,” he said, “plus, I want to get the hood of that Ferrari when Joe replaces it,” he replied. “I think that’ll be the perfect trophy to hang on my workshop wall.”

**Author's Note:**

> An acquaintance of my husband’s actually told me that terrible elephant story. I spent the whole interminable length of it, wondering to myself, “What would Clint do to this jerk?”
> 
> This story is perhaps a little heavy with technical detail, but I suspect it’s a topic in which Clint has more than a passing interest. The Rigby and Weatherby rifles described herein are very heavy weapons indeed, and so are the cartridges used. It is illegal to shoot elephant with anything lighter than a .375 Holland and Holland cartridge, and Jurgen’s Winchester 70 would use a cartridge of equivalent weight. I had originally given Clint a Czech-made Bruno with a Mauser action as his backup weapon in Africa, but a sniper friend of mine told me Clint would almost certainly prefer a Bushmaster, which uses very commonly-obtainable Kalashnikov ammunition and can be easily fitted with a silencer. 
> 
> Many African nations today rely heavily on the income from trophy hunts and safaris, and they are much more carefully regulated than they were in the past. Trophy hunting is very expensive and not everyone who applies will receive a permit. Hunters go out after a specific animal, predetermined by the professional hunter, and may not shoot another except in self-defense. Trophies obtained on these hunts are prepared locally, and the consumable meat from the animals’ carcasses is carefully butchered and distributed to local villages as food.


End file.
